


thirteen drabbles for thirteen dwarves

by displacedhobbit



Series: Prompt Fills and Drabbles [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 13 Days for 13 Dwarves, Gen, check chapters for warnings, don't expect anything more than the occasional death mention though, i want these to be mostly happy and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/displacedhobbit/pseuds/displacedhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of my ficlets for the 13 Days for 13 Dwarves challenge on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kíli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings here. :)

“There you go; that’s it,” he murmurs quietly, letting his hand come to rest against the lad’s back as he finishes setting his form.

“Are you sure, Papa?” Kíli asks, turning to regard him with wide, brown eyes. “Feels weird.”

Víli chuckles lightly and reaches down to tip his son’s elbow back into position. “It does, doesn’t it?” he agrees. “You get used to it though. Now,” he continues, guiding his hands over Kíli’s, “you grasp the string like this,” he demonstrates, “and pull it back to your cheek.” He lets go of the lad and stands, watching him fondly as he attempts to shoot his first arrow. The dwarfling struggles to pull the string, as he’d expected, and nearly drops the arrow. Kíli really _was_ too small to start weapons training, but he had been quite insistent that if Fíli were allowed to train with their uncle, then he should be allowed _too_.

And, as it happened more often than not, he was helpless to refuse his youngest son anything that he wanted.

Dís scolded him for it (and _often_ , particularly when it involved him giving the lad extra sweets), but Víli really _couldn’t_ help it. Coloring aside, Kíli was the spitting image of him as a youth, and had an eagerness and earnestness about him that was positively endearing. Besides, he hadn’t been much older when his father had taught _him_ how to shoot a bow.

“Can I help you?” he asks after giving the lad a few moments to try on his own.

Kíli nods, and Víli kneels behind him, nearly cradling the boy against his chest as he places his hands over top of Kíli’s small ones. “Keep your arms up, _hofukel_ ,” he instructs when the dwarfling’s elbow drops as they pull. “Pull it right back to your cheek,” he says, smiling softly when Kíli giggles at the brush of his fingers along his pudgy cheek. “I’m going to let go, okay? Hold on until you’re ready to shoot. Hold tight.” Kíli nods in agreement, and, to his surprise, the lad manages to keep it held taught, though his arm shakes from the effort.

“Now?” the lad whispers, voice tight with his effort.

“Now,” he agrees, and Kíli immediately lets the arrow fly. It falls short of the target they’d set, and skitters along the rocky ground before coming to rest.

“Papa did you see!” Kíli exclaims, whirling around excitedly, and nearly knocking his father in the head in the process. “I shot it!”

“Aye, you did, my boy!” he replies with a grin, the boy’s enthusiasm and excitement infectious as always. Víli swoops his arms around the lad and pulls him into a snug embrace, before rising back up on his feet and whirling the lad around. Kíli lets out a delighted squeal (which draws the attention from a few others at the training grounds, but he pays them no mind).

Kíli’s arms wrap around his neck and tug tightly. “Thank you, Papa,” he murmurs quietly, voice filled with warmth and gratitude, and that causes a feeling of warmth and love to blossom in Víli’s chest.

He presses a quick kiss to the lad’s temple and gives him another warm squeeze before returning him to the ground. “Again?” he asks, and Kíli’s enthusiastic nod is his reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hofukel - joy of all joys
> 
> i kind of have this headcannon that fíli is a complete momma's boy, so kíli tended to spend a lot of time with their father. :)


	2. Oin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings here. :)

He’d never really been able to hear well.

As a child, it hadn’t struck him as peculiar. Oin hadn’t realized that he was any different from the other dwarfling that he played and took lessons with. Sure, he knew that he heard more clearly thorough his left ear than his right, and he’d subconsciously taken to positioning himself so that others were usually speaking into his left, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the _other_ dwarrow didn’t do that as well. Though, he’d never tried to hide it (and truthfully, he hadn’t known there was anything _to_ hide). He would occasionally need to ask his peers to repeat things for him if they were on the wrong side, but no one ever pointed out to him that he was strange for it.

No, it wasn’t until he was well into his thirties that he realized he was abnormal.

He hadn’t been overly pleased to learn that his mother was with child. He was intending to start his apprenticeship at the House of Healing, and, as such, had already learned about all of the horrors that could befall a dwarrowdam during pregnancy. But, his mother _was_ happy, and that was enough to drive away most of his concerns.

It was a cool spring morning when his mother sent him off to fetch the healers (And though they had offered to let him help, Oin had not been overly keen on helping to deliver his own sibling), and it was that afternoon that he met his little brother, Gloin. The babe had a patch of ginger hair right at the top of his head and nowhere else, and the redness of his chubby cheeks rivaled his hair. Their mum kept insisting that little Gloin was the most precious thing, but he wasn’t so sure; not yet, anyhow.

To convince him, his mum asked him to watch over his newborn little brother for an evening while his father worked and she took a well-deserved nap. But Oin drifted off to sleep as well, with his left ear pillowed on his arms, and he didn’t _hear_ it when Gloin mustered up a mighty cry. His mum had woken from her nap and had shaken him awake as well, furiously scolding him for neglecting his brother. She hadn’t realized that he just couldn’t hear well until he told her as such.

That was when he found out that he was different.

She’d sent him to healer after healer, but none of them could offer any explanation for the apparent deafness in his right ear. They’d fashioned him a trumpet to use, and it worked well enough, as it amplified the weak sounds he was able to distinguish, but he was far too embarrassed to use it in front of anyone other than his family.

For years, he was miserable. He didn’t _like_ knowing that he was different; he had been much happier living in his illusion of normalcy.

It didn’t take Gloin long to realize that something was slightly off with him, young as he was, and while Oin himself had always been too embarrassed to explain the situation to him, he was certain that their mother must have said something to the youngster. As he grew older, Gloin took to positioning himself at his brother’s right said, and would clarify things for him without Oin even needing to ask him to. Every time he would, he’d give his brother a knowing, comforting smile.

And, with time, Oin realized that being a littler different wasn’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have this headcannon that dwarves don't really view disabilities the same was as men do - that they see it more of an interesting challenge rather than something that makes you less of a man - and because of this, oin never really noticed his deafness until he was placed in a situation that drew it out.


	3. Dwalin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor character death implied.

He sighs softly as he dips his cloth in the small basin of oil, before applying it carefully to his whetstone. He wasn’t far into his weapons training, but his Da had _insisted_ on teaching him all of the proper care techniques for his axes. Truth be told, he had probably spent just as much time cleaning and sharpening and polishing his weapons as he had actually _training_ with them.

‘ _Respect your weapon and it will respect you in return_ ,’ his Da always said. Balin would just roll his eyes and mutter something about weapons not ‘being sentient anyhow,’ but Dwalin believed their father. A well cared for weapon would serve him well in battle, once he was big enough and old enough for it. He was _sure_ of it. And, like his father, he had named his blades as well – Grasper and Keeper – in an extra display of respect.

“The sky was nice today,” he murmurs as he sweeps the whetstone across the blade of Grasper, moving his arm in slow, even strokes. “Not a cloud about, and it was that color of blue that you love.”

He doesn’t receive a reply, but he doesn’t expect one either. He keeps his gaze focused on his blades, making sure to sharpen and polish every inch of the metal as he rambles.

“I went out hunting with Thorin and Papa Thrain. He taught me how to set snares to try and catch some rabbits, but it was so boring,” he laments. “He made us sit and wait and watch. Thorin and I said it would be more fun if we could go hiking and then see what was there when we came back, but Papa Thrain wanted us to see how they worked.”

He scoffs quietly, grabbing his cloth and wiping the blade, polishing it to a glistening shine.

“He said we could next time, though,” he confesses. “And he said in the winter time that we can leave them out for a week or so at a time before we go back to collect them.” He finishes up with Grasper and re-oils the whetstone before pulling Keeper into his lap. “I asked him if the wolves would get ‘em, and he said maybe. But if we set enough of them, then there would be more left over even if the wolves got some.”

He pauses again, looking to regard his companion with a wistful expression. “Balin says you’re too far away to hear me, but I don’t think he’s right,” he admits. “I mean, Mandos is far, but I think you can still hear us.” He turns his gaze back to Keeper, and focuses on his work. “I don’t think the Maker is _that_ cruel, Mama.”

“Me neither,” his Da admits, voice echoing through the tomb and startling him out of his thoughts as he turns sharply to look at the older dwarf. “I come here a lot, myself, to speak with your mum,” he murmurs as he walks passed him, laying a hand softly onto the stone coffin, before turning to regard his youngest son. “It makes my heart feel a little lighter.”

Dwalin feels a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Mine too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually have about 50 million dwalin headcannons...i could talk about him ALL DAY.


	4. Bifur

He worked silently. He _liked_ silence. His cousins were often overly loud and boisterous, to the point where one of them would play fiddle while the other worked, and then alternate after a while. While others enjoyed the sounds of instruments and laughter and chatter, Bifur preferred the quiet, the smooth, swishing sound of wood shavings falling to the floor as he labored.

Some had thought him daft, giving up his position in the mines to spend all of his savings on a toyshop in town, and maybe he was. Dwarf children were few and far between, and the men in this town scoffed upon the ‘little people’ more often than not. But the mines did not call to him, did not beckon him in the way that his woodcarvings did.

In the mines, it was dark and cold. Dust always clogged his breath, and the physical work wore him down to his bones. Other dwarrow relished in it, savored the feeling of being able to harvest things from the earth, but not him. He craved the smile on a child’s face when they reached for a new toy, and the wider grins that adults often wore when examining some of his more complicated designs.

Carefully, he carves scales into the breast of a wooden dragon. His pieces are painstaking detailed, breath taking beautiful, if he did say so himself. And though the crank toys, like this one, took him many long hours to make, he made a fair amount of coin for them, and the smiles that they brought about were worth much, much more than that.

This particular toy was to be a gift, for the apparent heir to the Lonely Mountain. He hadn’t met the little princeling yet, nor the displaced king, but all dwarrow knew the tales of the horrors that followed the line of Durin – goldsickness, arrogance, and the fearsome dragon Smaug. The little lad was surely overdue for something bright and whimsical in his life.

He has already crafted a wooden dwarrow soldier, one with moveable arms whose armor was colored with a silver paint of his own invention, armed with a battle-axe and a fearsome expression. Once the dragon was complete, the lad would be able to imagine the reclamation of his homeland, would be able to slay the loathsome beast time and time again.

Bifur knew it wasn’t much, but the burly warrior who’d come in and commissioned it from him had assured him that it would be enough. “It’ll bring a smile to the lad’s face,” he had said with a wistful expression, before admitting that the boy’s father had passed not long ago.

The smile would be worth it, even if it only lasted for a moment. Even the faintest flicker of happiness was happiness still, and he was more than willing to provide a spark for the lad. He smiles softly, brushing the extra shavings away and regarding the ornate body of the dragon with a critical eye.

If only for a moment, he would be able to give that boy a feeling of triumph, of _joy_ , and it reaffirms that he made the right decision in leaving the mines and following his heart.


	5. Thorin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i have lots of feelings about pre-smaug bb!duins in erebor.

“Nadad, where are we _going_?” Dís whines, all but running on her short legs as she tries to keep up with her brothers.

Thorin tempers his eagerness to show his siblings his great discovery, and slows down so that Dís may catch up with them.  Once she does, he swoops down and picks her up, balancing her against his hip. “Better?” he asks, to which she nods excitedly.

“Won’t Da be cross with us for being out so early?” Frerin asks as he falls back into step with him.

“No,” Thorin answers quickly. “Well…maybe,” he amends, wincing at Dís’s gasp of surprise.

“You’re going to get us in _trouble?!_ ” she practically shrieks, her voice over loud in the otherwise silent halls.

“Shh!” he soothes her. “When do I ever get you into trouble?”  
“Always,” Frerin mutters under his breath, with no real heat to it, and Thorin shoots him a cheeky grin.

“Besides, Grandfather showed me this place, and he said I should show you,” he explains, turning them down another narrow hallway. “I’m really just doing what the King says.”

The logic is sound enough for all three dwarflings, and they continue their trek through the corridors in relative silence, climbing ever higher and higher, through halls that are seldom ever used. Finally, they reach the end of their journey, where a large, wooden door blocks their path.

“Help me open it,” Thorin says to Frerin as he gently sets Dís down on the floor. “It’s heavy.”

It takes the pair long than either of them will _ever_ admit to pull open the hulking door (though Dís was sure to tease them endlessly about it later), but once it’s open, they’re met with a rush of cool, early morning air, and the sight of millions of glittering stars.

“It’s cold,” Dís grumbles, cranky since Thorin had woken her so early. With an affectionate sigh, he hefts her back up again, tucking her in tight against his body and wrapping his fur-lined cloak around her.

“Aren’t you gonna carry me?” Frerin teases, and receives a swift kick in his shin for his effort.

“Come on,” Thorin urges, excitement taking over once more. “You’re going to love this!” They cross the threshold, stepping out onto a long forgotten balcony, high, high up on the mountain. Looking down reveals that the height is dizzying, and even though all three dwarflings thought themselves braver than most, they stayed as close to the mountain as they could manage. “Here,” Thorin says, pointing to a bench carved into the stone. “Sit here.”

Frerin does as he’s asked, and Thorin settles in beside him. They sit in silence for several long moments, and when Frerin shivers, he lifts the other side of his cloak and wraps it around his little brother’s shoulders. “What are we doing here?” Frerin grumbles, his earlier enthusiasm about Thorin’s ‘quest’ gone.

“Wait for it,” Thorin replies, nearly buzzing with excitement. It only takes a few more moments before they start to see it…the faintest shimmer of pink along the horizon. In a matter of moments, the dark, night sky blossoms into a kaleidoscope of colors – pinks and reds and oranges and blues – swirling through the sky like a fine piece of art.

“Wow,” Frerin breathes, and Dís nods happily from his side in agreement.

“It’s so pretty, nadad!” she declares, and Thorin can’t help the affectionate smile that pulls at his lips.


	6. Gloin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings here. :)

“That’s it, laddie! Come on!” Gloin shout excitedly from where he is crouched on the ground, patting his knees encouragingly.

Gimli babbles as he looks up at him, precariously balanced on chubby legs, with his mother holding his hands to keep him upright. A wide smile splits the baby’s face, and he swings a foot forward to take a mighty large step, but only succeeds in taking a tiny step backwards. He sways back, little behind dipping so that he nearly touches the floor, but his mother’s arms keep him standing.

“Oy, Aerona, let him do it on his own!” he says.

She simply tuts at him. “He’ll fall straight on his arse and you know it,” she laments, but releases the little dwarfling’s hands nonetheless.

As predicted, Gimli plops straight down on his bottom, which draws a quick spurt of laughter from _both_ of his parents. The lad doesn’t stay down for long, as he resolutely works to pull himself back up into a standing position. He spends a great deal of time with his legs straight and his hands on the ground, body bent in a ‘v’ shape, before he musters up the strength to stand upright, where he is met with a boisterous cheer from his father.

“Look at ‘em, love,” Gloin cheers. “Got stronger legs than any dwarfling for miles.”

“I see him, darling,” she replies with a smile. “Be a right fine warrior just like his Papa.”

Gimli tries another wobbly step, but nearly slips and falls again. Undeterred, he looks up at his father with a small grin and attempts another step. This one sticks, and he is able to keep his balance (though he looks wholly surprised and confused by it), and Gloin cheers again.

“Yes! You’ve got it, laddie!”

Spurred on by his father’s enthusiasm, Gimli makes tiny step after tiny step, surprising himself each time that he doesn’t fall. Finally, he reaches his father’s outstretched arms, and Gloin hoists him up into the air, spinning him around once with an excited whoop. Gimli laughs and grabs the braids of his moustache with an excited squeal.

“Alright, now come on,” Gloin murmurs as he settles the lad back on his feet. “Off to Mama, now!”


	7. Fíli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings here. just cutie patootie fíli with his mama and papa.

Fíli watches his mother with a curious expression, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. His breakfast sits forgotten in front of him, as his eyes stay riveted on the swell of Dís’s belly.

Víli watches with an amused expression. Last night, they had explained to Fíli that no, his mother wasn’t getting fat (the lad had made a rather loud proclamation at the marketplace that she shouldn’t eat any more sweets lest she grown any rounder), and that he would soon have a little brother or sister. Fíli had appeared to accept the news well enough, and had barely asked any questions before being put to bed.

But now, it seemed the new information had enough time to settle, based on the critical look his young son wears.

“You stare so hard and you’ll never grow a beard,” he teases lightly before taking a sip from his mug. Fíli whirls around and fixes him with a disbelieving look, before he recognizes his father’s smirk and relaxes. Dís laughs from behind him as she finishes washing up the dishes she’d used to make their meal.

“You said I was getting a brother,” he says simply.

“Or a sister,” Dís chimes in, and Víli knew full well that she was hoping for a baby girl.

“No,” Fíli insists. “It’s a brother. I know it.”

Víli chuckles lightly. “Well, yes then. You’re getting a brother.” Dís shoots him a small frown, truthfully only mildly annoyed with him.

“When?” Fíli asks, focus intensifying on his mother once more.

“Oh, I’d say a good four months from now,” Dís explains, returning back to her task at hand.

Fíli looks completely devastated by this bit of information, and Víli nearly chokes on his drink as he attempts not to laugh at him.

“Four _months_?” he gapes. He then pulls out his hands, and Víli can hear him quietly counting out the months of the year. “But that’s…that means he won’t be here until _January_. Mama that’s so _long_!”

“Well, baby dwarfling’s don’t just spring out of the ground, laddie,” Víli says with a smile.

“Where _do_ they come from, then?” the boy asks innocently, and that causes Víli to _actually_ choke on his drink. Dís drops a dish back into the washbasin, and he can see her shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. _Great_ , he thinks, realizing that she’s going to leave him to flounder on his own. He _did_ walk into it after all.

“Well, when two dwarrow fall in love with one another,” he begins, wincing when the shaking in Dís’s shoulder intensifies. “The Maker may decide to bless them with a child,” he continues. “That’s how _you_ came to be,” he says, poking the little dwarfling on the nose. “And the baby will grow in your Mama’s tummy until he’s ready to join us.”

“Mama you _ate_ him?!” Fíli screeches, and Dís all out laughs then, turning to regard them both with a mirthful smile and tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. Víli finds himself unable to contain his laughter at the lad’s outburst, laughing so had that his stomach aches.

“Of course not, sweeting!” she soothes, bending forward to swoop him up in her arms before she presses a tender kiss to his forehead. “Come here; I’ve a book from your Uncle Oin that will help explain things better, all right?”

“Do you promise that you didn’t eat him?” Fíli asks tremulously, lower lip wobbling pitifully, by all appearances still unconvinced that she _hadn’t_ and a bit thrown by his parents’ laughter.

“Promise.”


	8. Dori.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death mention.

Dori frowned, and set about counting the coins once more.

It wasn’t enough but it _had_ to be. He’d worked for hours this week, and had even taken some shifts in the mine; it _had_ to be enough.

It had been hard since their parents had passed nearly two years ago. His little brothers had been placed into his care (not that he would have _let_ them go anywhere else), and he was struggling to keep them both fed and clothed, loathe as he was to admit it. It wasn’t long after they passed that he’d been forced to sell the majority of their belongings. It had crushed him to do so, but he had managed to keep a few heirlooms (at Ori’s insistence). Even now, he wasn’t old enough to get some of the better jobs, so he spent his days going from odd job to odd job in an attempt to make as much coin as possible.

He didn’t mind it, not really. Sure, it was a burden, and it wore him down more than he cared to admit, but he loved his brothers and would do anything for them.

And yes, Nori and Ori complained endlessly at how fussy he was, but he was determined to take good care of them _and_ keep up appearances. He was too proud to ask for help and too stubborn to let anyone see them dressed in rags.

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He finishes counting, realizing with dismay that he really _was_ short.

He leans back in his chair, starring at the coin on the desk as though it has offended him. There was no _way_ …he recounted all of the tasks he had performed and the pay he’d be promised for each. Someone must have shorted him…he tries to think back to everyone he’d worked with recently, but they were all good dwarrow, and he couldn’t imagine that any of them would have slighted him.

A knock on the door draws him out of his thoughts, and he quickly manages to force a smile for the sake of his little brothers. “Come on in, lads,” he calls, smile becoming a bit more genuine when he sees little Nori leading Ori into the room.

“Don’t be mad,” Nori says immediately, offering up his arms in surrender. “But we may have borrowed some money from you.” By _we_ , he almost certainly means himself, as Ori just continues to chew a thumbnail.

He feels a mixture of relief and annoyance. He’s grateful that he knows where the missing money wound up, but annoyed that his brother had taken it without permission. Yet, there was no way that Nori could possibly know that their funds were dwindling; he’d kept too good of a secret.

Nori nudges Ori in the back, and the little lad skips forward, holding a parcel in his hands. “’Appy birthday nadad!” he shouts excitedly, handing the gift to his oldest brother.

With a fond smile, Dori takes it and opens it, revealing several different pastries from one of the shops in town.

“I know it was wrong to pick from you,” Nori admits. “But you work so hard, and I knew you would never get something like this for yourself.”

“Come here, you,” Dori calls with a grin, reaching out to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“Stop it,” Nori mutters as he makes a half-hearted attempt to squeeze out of his grip, before relenting and hugging his arms around his brother in return.

And if he has to eat a little less this week to make up for it, that would be well worth it.


	9. Ori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death mention.

He doesn’t remember a lot about their parents. He’d been rather young, not quite ten years old, when they’d passed. Most of his childhood memories circled around Dori mothering over him and Nori sneaking him little sweets and presents (that, in retrospect, he probably stole, but Ori still appreciated the kind gesture anyhow). But still, there were snippets of them, flashes of memories that existed in his mind.

His father, he remembers, had been a scribe. He’d worked for the local government, taking notes at all of the important meetings and drafting missives and letters that would be distributed to all of the dwarrow around town. He also owned a small library, where he spent his spare time teaching some of the less well off dwarrow how to read and write. That was where Ori had learned, and even though the library was long gone and replaced with a bakery, he could still smell the crisp parchment and hear the quiet scratching of quills upon it.

Dori had frowned at him when he’d said he wanted to become a scribe. Ori knew his brother was worried that he wouldn’t be able to support himself with such a career, but he could see the quiet understanding in his eyes (along with a hint of pride). Maybe one day he would be able to open a library as well, and he could spend his days sitting amongst the books and scrolls that he had come to love so dearly.

His mother had been a seamstress. She used to make some of the most beautiful tunics and robes in the entire town, with ornate beading and embroidery. When Ori was young, she taught him how to knit, mostly to give him something to do while she was working so he would stay out of her hair. He’d taken to it quite well, as he’d inherited his mother’s steady, dexterous hands. Before she passed, he would make scarves and hats for her to sell in her shop.

For a long while after their deaths, he wanted nothing to do with knitting or sewing. Sure, he would occasionally help his brothers mend clothing when necessary, but he was too afraid to begin knitting again. He worried that he would attempt to do something too complicated, and his mother wouldn’t be there to teach him how to overcome it.

Their deaths had been sudden. In the morning, they had been alive and well, and the family had eaten a scrumptious breakfast together, but by supper time Dori was holding two sobbing little brothers who couldn’t understand why their parents had been attacked and mercilessly killed on the road.

No, it wasn’t until Dori eventually came clean about their financial struggles that he gathered up the courage to begin again. He wasn’t yet old enough to work a real job, but he could certainly help by making them sweaters and socks and gloves that they wouldn’t have to buy in town. When he finally unearthed his knitting supplies (they have been tucked in a treasure box and hidden in his clothing chest for years), he’d found a lavender colored sweater, half in progress. He had intended it to be a gift for his mother.

For a long while, all he could do was sit and stare at the garment in his hands. Then, like something from a dream, he could hear his mother’s quiet voice in his ear, guiding him through the stitches that would complete the sweater. His hands moved on their own accord, falling into old habits easily and heeding the advice from his mother’s voice, and the sweater was completed in no time at all.

Nori would tease him endlessly about it, but he wore the lavender sweater for years, mending it countless times, for every time he wore it he could hear his mother’s calm assurance along with the sound of his father’s quill scraping over parchment.


	10. Nori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings here. death mention.

He’d learned fairly early on that he was, what some dwarrow would describe as, a _cute kid_. At first, he had despised it. He had great aspirations of slaying orcs, as all dwarflings tended to, and it simply would not _do_ for him to be _cute_.

Then Nori had learned that being cute gave him certain…advantages.

The first was that he could pilfer sweets whenever he wanted. All he needed to do was turn on a big smile and throw a few compliments about, and he managed to flee the sweetshop with pockets full. He usually just gave the treats to Ori, for he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, and this practice only increased after their parents had passed.

Often times he would trade the sweets to the other dwarflings in town. One sweet for a kiss from a lass, two sweets for a coin, three sweets for a secret…by the age of thirty he was a master at bartering with his treats. He knew something about _everyone_ in town, all through secrets told to him by the other dwarflings. He knew whose father partook in a bit too much ale, which dwarrowdams had been promiscuous with their lovers…he even knew of two dwarrow who had committed a murder to protect their dwarflings on the road. Rather quickly, Nori had learned that the _secrets_ were the most valuable prize of all.

As he started to get older, he realized that it was a little silly for him to be so involved with the candies (and the sweetshop owner _was_ starting to get suspicious), and moved on to more… _proper_ thefts, like lifting coin and gems.

The second, and more important, thing that he’d learned was that people _trusted_ him. They didn’t even need to know him that well…he just had ‘one of those faces’. Nori had a good, long laugh with himself after he’d been told _that_ …he’d spent his entire childhood pilfering sweets and amassing secrets. All he needed to do was slip someone an ale purchased with some stolen coins, and the secrets _flowed_. Most of the time, the secrets were mundane, _boring_ complaints about their daily lives, but every now and then, he caught wind of a good one.

One night he learned that a dwarrow’s wife was notoriously bad at locking their gems away, and he feared that they would be stolen. Not two nights later, a good chunk of the gems _were_ missing, and Nori’s pockets were quite a bit heavier, but the dwarf was none the wiser.

Dori eventually caught him. His brother had become suspicious of his sudden influx of funds (working as a tailor’s apprentice didn’t pay _that_ well) and followed him one evening. Nori was livid at being caught. He was _good_ at what he did, and they were better off because of it.

“Don’t you know what they do to dwarrow they catch thieving?” Dori had shouted, face cherry red with anger.

And Nori did know. They executed them. Publically.

“They’ll never suspect me!” he’d countered, fully believing himself. Why would they? He was _cute_. He had one of _those_ faces. People _trusted_ him.

“Don’t make me have to drag your brother to _another_ funeral,” Dori all but snarls, shoving him roughly in the shoulder as he walks out.

That night, Nori makes a vow to himself that he _won’t_ put his little brother through that sort of nightmare again. He refrains from theft, but he doesn’t stop collecting secrets.

And if others are keen to pay him for what he knows…well, he can’t be held accountable for that.


	11. Bofur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings. i just love bofur a lot. :)

He _hates_ working in the mines.

He had intended to take an apprenticeship with Nar, who ran the local wood working shop. Bofur was quite talented with his hands; his cousin had taught him from a young age, and he had developed great skill with a carving knife. He spent the majority of his free time practicing and honing his skills, creating a multitude of toys for his little brother, or frames for his mother’s paintings, or even bowls and cutlery that were used daily in their kitchen.

Then the unthinkable had happened. His father fell ill with the black lung from the mines, and in a matter of days, he went from the happy, cheerful father Bofur had known to a hacking, weak shell of himself. He’d perished so suddenly that the three of them were left with nothing more than shock and the small bag of coin the town offered to all grieving families.

His mum didn’t work; their father had always provided for them. And as the oldest son, it soon fell on Bofur’s shoulders to take care of his family, despite his young age. With a heavy heart, he’d packed most of his carving knives away, tucked into his chest at the foot of his bed, and donned a helmet to venture into the mines.

He didn’t mind being underground (no proper dwarf really minded such a thing), but the mines were positively claustrophobic. He wasn’t overly fond of crawling through narrow passageways with naught but a flickering lantern to guide him. Since he was so young when he began, the youngest by a good 40 years at least, they often sent him into the smallest corridors, or sent him ahead to scout out new mining locations.

But the pay _was_ good, and he was able to support his mother and little brother. That was all he’d wanted, really. As his brother grew, their mum took to teaching him how to cook. Bombur was a natural, and was soon creating some of the most delicious concoctions Bofur had ever tasted. Soon, Bombur set his heart on opening his own tavern, with the bigger dream being to one day own an inn.

Bofur knew that it would take a lot of coin to make his brother’s dream come true, but it became the beacon of hope that shone at the end of the dark, dank mining tunnels. Bombur’s tavern would be their new beginning, and he was more than willing to take on extra shifts in the mines to make it happen. He scrimped and saved for years, never once letting Bombur know of his true purpose, until finally, _finally_ , he’d amassed more than enough gold to purchase one of the buildings in town that would make for a fine tavern.

He made the purchase in secret, secured the key and rushed home to fetch his family. With baited breath, he’d even blindfolded them, before all but dragging them through the streets of the town with childlike giddiness. He pulled them into the new tavern, and lit the lanterns before telling them to pull their blindfolds off.

He had hated working in the mines, _hated_ it, but the looks on their faces made all of his labors worth it.


	12. Balin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of character deaths and the sack of erebor.

Shrewd. Calculating. Heartless.

He’d heard them all as insults flung at him through hushed whispers. And perhaps he was, but was that really so poor of him? If he were shrewd, it must be worth it, for he had secured trade routes for the settlement that housed the refugees of Erebor without costing them much of anything at all. If he were calculating, it was worth it, for he had safely helped to navigate them to the Blue Mountains and had worked tirelessly alongside Thorin to create a new home for them.

If he was heartless, well…what dwarf wasn’t just a little bit heartless?

Truthfully, that was the one that burned him the most, for anyone who truly _knew_ Balin would never use such a term to describe him. _Everything_ he did involved heart, but he had learned from a very young age that it was best to keep his heart locked up, guarded safe against the horrors of the world.

He’d watched his mother fall ill and wither and die. He’d watched the dragon sack Erebor, where his father had burned alive. He’d watched his king, who’d taken him in as though he were one of his own, be rid of his head by a truly vile orc. He’d watched his baby brother nearly perish in the same battle. He’d watched his closest friend lose everything he’d loved. He’d watched his first and only love die of starvation on the road.

He’d watched plenty of the horrors of this world, and he’d learned how to guard himself against them. He’d learned how to make hard, unpopular decisions by resolutely swallowing down his emotions so that he could _get the job done_.

And if that made him heartless in the eyes of others, so be it.

“Why is you making that face, unca’ Balin?” little Fíli asks, pulling him out of the negative spiral this thoughts have turned to. He turns to regard the little lad, the literal ray of sunshine in the settlement.

“Why _are_ you making that face,” he corrects, though not unkindly.

Fíli frowns at his statement, wrinkling his nose as he tries to work out his error. “Why are you making that face?” he asks again, exaggerating the ‘are’, smiling up at his tutor, clearly hopeful for some approval at his revised question.

“Just thinking too much,” he assures the lad with a pat to his head. “Nothing to fret over.”

Fíli frowns again. “Unca’ Thorin thinks too much too,” he says, nodding at the end of his statement, as though affirming his correctness, before turning back to the parchment in front of him where he is practicing his letters, their conversation all but abandoned.

Balin chuckles lightly, shaking his head amusedly at the youth. From across the room, he hears Dwalin mutter ‘ _softie_ ’ under his breath.

Yes, though others may call him heartless, those who are closest to him, his _family_ , know better, and that thought warms him to his very core.


	13. Bombur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no major warnings.

“Papa! Papa!” three voices chorus from the sitting room.

Bombur smiles, toeing off his boots as he comes into their modest home, the tension of a long and stressful night and morning at the tavern washing away in an instant.

A travelling band of dwarrow had passed through town last night, taking up nearly every room in the inn and practically eating them out of house and home by the morning. It had been worth it though – the dwarrow had paid him a hefty amount of coin for his hospitality – and he was left with much heavier pockets even after paying his staff.

“Good morning, little mongrels!” he greets cheerfully, before he is practically assaulted by his three mobile children, two boys attached to either arm and his young daughter latched to his leg. Across the room, his wife, Eila, smiles at him, from where she is nursing their youngest, another son.

He really hadn’t planned on having such a large family, or even having a family at all. Dwarrowdams were preciously rare in this town, and he didn’t quite fit the typical definition of a strong, handsome dwarf. Sure, he was plenty strong, and an apt enough fighter (he regularly volunteered with the town patrol and had seen a few smatterings of combat), and his beard was practically unrivaled in its magnificence, but his affinity for food and cooking was a bit unusual at least.

Then, he had met Eila, and had instantly known that she was his One. Fortunately enough, she had felt the same, and they’d fallen into this beautifully wonderful life they shared together.

“It suits you,” Bofur had said when he’d come to visit just after their fourth child was born. At the time, he’d been wholly exhausted and was positive his brother was simply messing with him, but he’d later come to agree with his older ( _wiser_ , as Bofur always insisted) brother.

It still awed him that they’d been blessed with _four_ children, one of them a daughter. Children were rare and precious for all dwarrow, and their daughters even more so. He’d become a dedicated, devoted father, and he cherished every moment that he was able to spend with his children. He didn’t mind the occasional long night at the tavern, so long as he made enough coin to in turn spoil his children with (not that they weren’t spoilt enough through the efforts of their dear Uncle Bofur).

Greeting hugs finished, Bombur disentangles himself from his children and settles in on the couch next to his wife. His daughter crawls into his lap, holding a book and asking him to read to her, and his elder sons settle onto the floor to play with some of their favorite toys.

His mind drifts back to Thorin’s offer to join his company and reclaim Erebor. It _was_ incredibly tempting…reclaiming the mountain would ensure that his children would be well cared for and protected for the rest of their days. His family was not of Erebor, but Thorin had promised that they would be more than welcome as _nobility_ of the mountain. It was a station in life that he otherwise would never be able to provide to them on his own. It was all he wanted, really, to give his children a better life than he’d had.

Yet, it would be dangerous, terrifyingly so. He might be able to win them the mountain, but he could perish in the process. He might not be able to see his children grow up, to see them live the life that he dreamed for them. Furthermore, would his wife even agree to such a thing? It seemed crass to leave her behind with four dwarflings under forty to care for by herself. The rest of the townspeople would help her, but was that worth it?

He knew in his heart that it _was_.


End file.
